


The Wheels on the Bus

by ArcticLucie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, First Kiss, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Stiles is a bus driver, Writer Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 22:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20665013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcticLucie/pseuds/ArcticLucie
Summary: After six months, Stiles finally hits on Derek. Unfortunately, it’s with his bus.





	The Wheels on the Bus

**Author's Note:**

> Another thing I've had sitting in my drafts for ages.
> 
> Enjoy!

Stiles is a bus driver. It’s not exactly glamorous, but it pays the bills. The worst part is the lingering smell of ass and diesel fuel that permanently permeates the air and seeps into the fabric of his clothes while he’s working. It sinks in so deep that he can never quite wash it out, not even with a name brand detergent. Which reminds him, he needs to pick some up on his way home.

He applies the brakes and the tires do their screeching thing as the bus comes to a stop. It’s 7:10pm at the corner of Lexington and Fourth, so he’s not surprised when “Mr. and Ms. Smith” climb on board, their well-fitting suits completely incongruous with their need to scrape nickels together in order to pay for bus fare. He doesn’t judge—he’s been there, he still _ is _ there—but he does observe.

He’s an observer, a people watcher.

And while he may not know their real names—Kate and Chris maybe—he knows their story…well, he knows the story he’s writing about them in his terribly titled book _ The Murderers’ Betrayal. _ It’s the third book in his B.A.D. W.O.L.V.E.S. series centered around a network of assassins that work for the Badass And Deadly Warriors Of the Lethal Vengeance Elimination Squad, and while he’s very aware he’ll never be the next Stephen King, the few sales he’s made on Amazon bought his PlayStation 4.

“Ms. Smith” always has a phone glued to her ear—getting their newest assignment, if Stiles’s overactive imagination can be believed—so the act of paying always befalls to Chris. Stiles flashes his signature another-day-another-awkward-greeting grin as they climb the steps. He refuses to notice the worn corner of Chris’s messenger bag and the two small holes in the back of Kate’s stockings. Because that’s just good manners. 

Following them on is Boyd—and he’s pretty sure the guy’s actual name is Boyd since it says so right on his work uniform in big red letters. He’ll get off at the Miller Street stop near the ice rink, so it’s obvious to Stiles that he’s some kind of big shot hockey player who will end up getting his throat slashed with his own skate by one of the Smith’s. But he hasn’t gotten to that part yet; he’s still working on a motive.

He pulls the lever and the door closes. After Boyd has found his seat, somewhere near the old lady who’s sleeping in a middle row—Stiles should probably check on her at some point, one dead person on his bus route was quite enough thank you—he applies pressure to the gas, and the bus lurches forward. He sees Kate give him the stink eye in the rearview, but he ignores her just like he does everyday.

The good news is it has also jolted the old lady awake… or back from the brink of death, which is precisely how it will go in his retellings.

Traffic isn’t too bad this late in the evening, hence his reasoning for requesting the third shift, but the threat of rain loomed overhead all day and he finally sees the first streaks of lightning out his huge window. He usually likes the rain, but the only thing worse than the smell of bus ass is the smell of wet bus ass.

The Wonder Twins are late as usual when he pulls the bus up to the next stop. He sees them running down the side street under the faint light of the lampposts and muses on what kind of heist they’re escaping from this time…jewel heist, yeah, definitely a jewel heist. Stiles had seen Aiden’s girlfriend once before: red hair, high maintenance, stuck out like a sore thumb among his usual riders. If he were dating her, he’d probably pull off a jewel heist too.

He jots down that juicy plot bunny along with _ The Ruby Red Heart _ for a potential title while they pay the fare.

“What’s up, Stiles?” Ethan says, paying for him and his brother.

“Hey guys,” he nods in greeting.

“Thanks for waiting,” pants an out of breath Aiden as he pats Stiles on the back when he passes.

“No problem.” Stiles puts his pen and notepad back in his shirt pocket and closes the door. Once they’re seated, off they go.

He hits all the green lights on Broadway which means he’s early to his next stop even after waiting a few extra for the twins. The first drop of rain splatters the windshield just as he reaches down for the radio.

“Dispatch, this is bus 42 requesting a weather report.”

_ “Stiles, for the hundredth time, your bus number is 4, not 42,” _ Scott radios back.

“4 is boring,” he counters. “42 is the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.” He loves this stop because, if things run smoothly, he always has a few extra minutes to talk to Scott. And if he’s really lucky, time to argue about why he put in the petition to get the number of his bus route changed. “_ Everything, _ Scott.” He can’t stress this enough.

_ “Stiles, our buses don’t even get out of the teens. Now do you want to hear the weather report or not?” _

“I don’t need it. I have eyes. And besides, the number 42 is bigger than the weather, Scott, it’s—”

_ “Everything, yeah I know, but I finally asked Kira out,” _ Scott says changing the subject.

Stiles lets it slide for now, but there will be a meeting with the head of the public transportation system if he has anything to say about it. Most likely he’ll just nag the guy to death until he gives in to his demands. He’s good at that, getting under people’s skin until they see reason…or he gets his way. And Scott will be there by his side because that’s what bros do.

“Kira? You mean the new trolley driver?” Stiles asks. He’s not jealous. Nope, not at all.

_ “Yeah, still can’t believe she said yes. We’re going out Friday.” _

Stiles groans and slumps over his giant steering wheel. “How come they won’t let me drive the trolley? I’d be good at it.”

That was probably a lie.

_ “No offense, Stiles, but you have to have people skills to drive the trolley.” _

He has a point so Stiles isn’t offended, though he pulls a face despite the fact that Scott can’t see him as he sputters his protest. He hears Erica scoff from a few rows back when he spouts, “I have people skills!” and he narrows his eyes at her in the rearview. He’s already started plotting out her book in which she’s a homicidal black widow type that feeds on men like they’re candy, luring them into her honey trap and pouncing on them with deadly precision.

Hmmm, maybe she’ll be the one to kill Boyd. He’s seen the way they make eyes at each other from across the aisle. One of them should make a move already because he’s kind of tired of their pheromones stinking up the bus, although it’s still better than ass.

But he really likes the blade across the neck idea, so maybe she’ll avenge him instead.

_ “You should probably get back to your route, Stiles,” _ Scott says, pulling him back from that place he likes to go inside his head when he’s plotting.

“Roger that, dispatch. Bus _ 42, _ over and out.”

He hangs the radio back on the hook and steers the bus away from the curb. The twins get off at North Main, as does the old lady and a few others he doesn’t recognize as regulars. If he did, they’d be in his stories. The rain is getting heavier and just as he’s closing the door, a hand slips in between and stops them.

Stiles sighs when he opens them up and sees who it is.

Jackson Whittemore is the resident homeless man on his route and the reason why his bus always smells like ass and sometimes booze—and is that a hint of armpit? He really needs to start stocking his bus with air freshener. That or cut off his nose. Breathing through his mouth is even worse because he swears he can _ taste _ it: acerbic, bitter, and vomit inducing. 

Jackson stares him down in challenge, but Stiles isn’t about to kick a man when he’s down, so he lets him on, checks his pass, and lets it slide when he notices it expired yesterday. The smelly vagabond is already soaked to the bone and the rain is only getting harder.

“I used to drive a Porsche, y’know,” Jackson mutters as Stiles waves him passed the tiny metal barrier.

Jackson’s story was his first, _ Riches to Rags _, and is his top selling book to date. Probably because it’s terrible and people are masochists. Guy makes a deal with the devil and loses everything when Codename: Beelzebub comes to deliver the deathblow. Okay, so it also had a Scott character, all noble and self-sacrificing, who is awarded for his good deeds with the greedy dudes money and gets to ride off into the sunset because happy endings, dammit!

He gets giddy when he turns onto Maple, tries to focus on anything but the uptake in his pulse and the way his palms turn clammy. This happens every night, but there’s no reason for it. He’s been driving the bus for almost a year now and Alpha One hasn’t said one word to him since he became a regular six months ago—always getting on at Maple, always getting off three stops down on Park.

It’s not unusual for Stiles to know his regulars’ routines. He knows Chris won’t be riding tomorrow because it’s Wednesday, and he won’t see the twins because they only ride on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He’ll see Isaac and Allison instead for their regular date night and Erica will switch seats so they can all catch up on their week. 

He knows this because people are creatures of habit, and Stiles is an observer.

This is how he knows that hot guy’s name is Derek, because he _ observed _ it on his bus pass.

He also observed the way Derek migrated from the middle of the bus to the very front row, diagonal from him, over the course of his first month. Most likely this was his way of finding his spot, but Stiles likes to think they have a connection, what with the way Stiles greets him with a “Hey” or “Hi” and gets a grunt in return. Derek doesn’t talk to anyone though; he just sits there and stares out the front window until his stop. 

Alpha One is going to get his own book once Stiles can narrow down a plot that’s worthy. He’s been in every book so far, even the ones he wrote before Derek started riding, but he fits perfectly into the character of Alpha One, the strong mostly silent leader of the B.A.D. W.O.L.V.E.S.

He’s thinking of potential plots, so maybe he’s not paying enough attention to the road when it happens, maybe he spaces out just a little bit, which happens when he gets in too deep, especially when brilliant olive green eyes are involved. Or maybe people shouldn’t run across the road at night in the pouring rain. Regardless, all he sees is a blur when a man jets out in front of the bus.

Slamming on the breaks is instinctual; there is no thought involved. The wheels hiss in protest, and he hears shrieks coming from behind him thanks to the abrupt change in momentum as they all brace for impact. He can see the white of the man’s wide eyes as the bus nears, and he just hopes this doesn’t end with the second dead guy on his route in as many months.

“Hold on!” he yells, but he can barely hear his own voice over the thunk of man on metal.

His heart is thundering in his chest as he sets the break and throws open the doors. Then he’s rushing down the steps—it’s a wonder he doesn’t tumble down them—and is hitting his knees beside the man, beside…_ shit, _ beside Derek. Erica and Boyd are right there with him and Boyd takes off his jacket, giving one side to Erica, as they hold it over them.

Derek is eerily still and Stiles is two seconds away from a full-blown freak out because he’s never killed anyone before. Well, not in real life, he’s killed off characters in his books, but he’s sure that’s completely different, and he most certainly does not want to kill off Alpha One. His chest starts to tighten—the first signs of a panic attack—but then Derek is gasping for air and twisting his hand into Stiles’s shirt. 

And all Stiles can think about is how much he’d never forgive himself if he killed someone as hot as him. He’s not sure humanity could recover.

Derek’s shirt is saturated with Earthy smelling rainwater and Stiles can make out every single pocket of his abs through his thin tee. The curve of his jaw is dusted in dark hair and his eyes are shiny in the bright lights of the bus. There is no blood or other obvious signs of trauma, and Stiles is thankful he had slowed the bus considerably before impact.

He can hear Kate on the phone in the background calling for an ambulance, and he thinks about radioing dispatch to send another bus out. But that’ll have to wait because Derek is clinging to him like a lifeline. It takes him a minute to realize his own hand is curled around the wrist of the hand clutching his shirt and the other is raking through wet hair.

“A-are you okay?”

Derek is breathing pretty hard, and Stiles actively blocks out the thoughts of possible internal damage. He’s done enough research on trauma and injuries for his writing that he’s probably on a few government lists thanks to his eclectic search history, but he’s familiar with internal injuries and how deceiving they can be.

“Can you tell me your name?” Stiles tries again.

“S-s’mores?” the guy rasps, and Stiles isn’t sure he hears him right.

“Did he just say his name is S’mores?” Erica asks. 

“He could have a brain injury,” Boyd so helpfully supplies.

Yeah, because Stiles hadn’t already thought of that….

Derek is going to be a vegetable, a really hot looking vegetable, but just his luck that when Stiles finally hits on a hot guy, hits on _ him, _ it’s with his bus.

“Derek!” someone screams, and Stiles looks up to see a woman running across the street. She makes her way to them and drops to her knees, trembling hands hovering over Derek’s body like she’s afraid to touch him. They have to be siblings; the resemblance is uncanny.

When he looks back at him, Derek’s eyes are clamped shut, and the hand in Stiles’s shirt is going lax and starting to droop. His face is softening as the tension evaporates, and Stiles has a fleeting thought that this is how he looks when he’s sleeping. Stiles is a bus driver not a doctor, but he’s also not stupid, so he’s pretty sure that passing out is the worst possible thing Derek should do right now. 

“Hey, big guy,” he says, squeezing the hand he’s now holding. He gives Derek the gentlest shake, not wanting to jostle him around in his current state. “You gotta wake up, okay? You just have to open your eyes and stay awake until the paramedics get here.”

He can almost hear the sirens in the background.

Or he would have if Chris hadn’t opened his big mouth. “Great, you killed another one Stilinski.” He’s not sure how to feel about the fact that Chris knows his name. Sure, it’s written on his badge, but he’d prefer it if his most efficient fictional assassin wouldn’t notice him.

“Derek, please,” the woman is pleading. Stiles shakes him a little harder and his eyes flutter open.

“L-Laura,” Derek whispers.

“Yeah, it’s me. You’re going to be okay, you just have to stay with me.”

“S’mores?”

“He must’ve hit his head pretty hard,” Boyd once again points out.

“His cat. She got out and he was chasing her.”

Oh just great! Stiles hits a guy with his bus who’s performing search and rescue for his escaped fur ball. This just keeps getting better. All he can think about now is that Derek better not die on him because he’d feel really bad about using this whole idea in a book if he doesn’t pull through. And there is no way he’s not using this in a book. 

It’s Stiles’s dad that arrives first on the scene, sirens blaring and lights flashing, fully dressed in his sheriff’s uniform with a deputy in tow. He must’ve been out on his weekly patrol run; he likes to stay fresh, keep his skills sharp. “Stiles, what the hell happened?”

He holds back the sarcastic _ ‘It’s nice to see you too, dad’ _ in favor of, “He came out of nowhere. I swear I didn’t see him and then, then he just kind of froze… like a deer… caught in the headlights.” Yes, it’s cliché, but there really is no other way to describe it.

The paramedics arrive soon after and take over from there, poking and prodding and loading Derek in the ambulance. Stiles is finally able to call for a bus, and he feels a little guilty about all the people at his future stops standing around in the rain. He can’t even bare to look his regulars in the eye because some of them have places to be and he knows it’s going to be awhile before his dad and a few other deputies are finished taking statements. Not to mention that Derek’s… you know… their bus “family.”

So, he sits down on the steps of his number 4 bus to wait and fails miserably at his attempts to not worry about Derek.

* * *

It’s two hours later before he makes it to the hospital. His clothes are still damp and his boss put him on leave pending an accident investigation. Scott assured him it was procedure, which he knows, but it’s still a strange feeling being investigated. At least all the witness statements confirmed his account.

But he’s not worried about his job right now.

He walks up to the front desk and Scott’s mom instructs him to go to the surgery waiting area. She’s not supposed to reveal a patient’s condition to non family members, but he’s gotten pretty good at using the puppy dog eyes on her when he needs to. That’s why she’s the wise fairy godmother type in his second book. So what if that one is also a romance novel of sorts?

And no matter how much Mr. Harris, literary critic for the Beacon Hills Gazette whines about it, Stiles Stilinski does not write hetero smut.

Laura and another raven-haired girl are sitting in the center of the room when he gets to the waiting area. He thinks belatedly that he should’ve brought flowers or something, but the gift shop closed at nine and he had no idea where the nearest florist was. He swears he hears Laura growl when she sees him. She stands, and he gives serious consideration to running away, but the nurse is calling out “Hale” and she turns her attention to a woman in scrubs.

Well that’s just great. He hit a Hale. One of _the_ Hale’s, richest family in Beacon Hills. He would never going to live this down. They probably already had their lawyers drawing up the lawsuit against him and the city.

Ignoring his better judgment, he creeps closer until he can hear the nurse telling them that everything went well and that Derek is expected to make a full recovery. That’s when Laura spots him and glares. He’s not even slightly ashamed to admit that he turned right around and all but ran toward the elevator. The most important thing is that Derek—the fine hunk of man whose nipples he can still picture standing erect through his drenched tee—is going to be fine.

He, however, is going to hell.

* * *

“What’s the big emergency, Stiles? Why did you need the cage?” Scott asks, stepping out of his car and pulling out the pet carrier from the passenger seat.

“I have to find his cat, Scott. He was chasing it when he, when I hit him.”

“It can’t wait till morning? It’s almost midnight.”

Stiles appreciates that he doesn’t mention the light mist that’s still falling. “This cat is the reason he got hit in the first place. The least I can do is find it for him.”

Scott’s eyes widen like one does when they’ve just put all the pieces together, “Oh my god, he’s Alpha One, isn’t he? I didn’t know he was real too.”

“His name is Derek, and he’s a freaking Hale,” Stiles says, waving his hands around in frantic circles because he’s not quite sure what else to do with them. “Why the hell does he need to even ride the bus anyway? He can probably afford a chauffeur or something.”

“I don’t know, maybe he likes to feel like a normal person sometimes?”

Stiles sighs, “Are you going to help me look for S’mores or what?”

“S’mores? Are you serious?” Scott chuckles but stops when Stiles facial expression conveys that he’s never been more serious in his life. “All right, let’s find his cat.”

It takes about thirty minutes to locate the cat, and he’s not surprised that he or she looks very much like a s’more. The feline’s rain doused coat is a perfect ratio of chocolate brown, to light brown to marshmallowy white. He gets it now; there is no way this cat could’ve been named anything but S’mores.

They spend another ten minutes coaxing the scared kitty out from under the dumpster it’s wedged under, but Stiles had already thought of that and picked up a can of tuna when he was getting laundry detergent. She, he’s pretty sure it’s a she, fights them when they put her in the cage but settles once Stiles gets her strapped into his jeep.

He’s not sure what to do with her after that. He can’t take her to the hospital because that would violate health codes—visiting hours are over anyway—and he doesn’t know of any animal clinics or shelters that are open late. Even if he did, he wasn’t comfortable taking the scared and shivering cat to an unfamiliar place where they would lock her up. So, he ends up taking her home. It’ll have to do until he can make other arrangements.

* * *

The next morning, Stiles rushes down to the hospital first thing. He manages to convince—bribe—Scott into accompanying him so he can sit in the car with S’mores while Stiles goes in. Scott got the room number from his mom for him and he takes a deep breath before he rounds the corner into the room.

His eyes lock with Derek’s and he thinks cherubs might be serenading them somewhere because he has a smile on his face, the first and only smile Stiles has ever seen on him, and it’s breathtaking, he can’t bare to look away. But then it’s fading like the last rays of sunshine at dusk and he’s left cold without it.

Stiles sighs at his change in demeanor, but he supposes it’s justified. He takes a few tentative steps into the room and shoves his hands in his pockets because they are sweaty and they sometimes flail around uncontrollably when he’s nervous. “I, uh, I guess I didn’t expect you’d be happy to see him after I almost killed you.” He tries to laugh off the guilt, but it doesn’t work.

Derek looks at him confused before his face is schooled into what Stiles can only label as his neutral face, even though it would look like a scowl on anyone else. “They didn’t tell me who it was.”

“Well, that would be me, your resident bus driver and king of roadkill. Sorry, that was bad. I just came to make sure you were going to pull through, and it looks like you are so….”

“They said you saved me.”

“I didn’t give you mouth to mouth or anything,” Stiles says a little too quickly—not that he hadn’t thought about it—his eyes drifting down to Derek’s lips before he snaps them up and out the window for a moment to stare at the guy mowing the grounds. He looks back and swears Derek was checking him out, but he’s lithe and wiry and he’s not sure anyone has ever checked him out before, let alone anyone Derek caliber, so he dismisses the idea. “I mean, I just held your hand and tried to keep you conscious. The doctors and paramedics did most of the work.”

“No, I mean I was having an appendicitis and getting hit and rushed to the hospital saved my life. They said it was about to burst, so you… saved me.”

“Wow, dude, that’s… I did?” Stiles asks, because he’s not quite sure he believes this is happening. Maybe his luck isn’t so bad after all.

Derek snorts out a little laugh. “Mhm. So, uh… thanks for that.”

Stiles scratches the side of his neck and tries not to look too smug about being somewhat of a hero. “Yeah, no problem. Just part of the job. I gotta take care of my riders otherwise I’d be out of a job.”

Stiles makes his way over to Derek’s bed without even realizing it, and he’s not really sure what else to say. They’re still technically strangers, and when he thinks about it, this is the first time he’s ever heard Derek’s voice. It’s nice, a low timber, and it’s warm, the kind of voice he could fall asleep to murmuring sweet nothings in his ear. Then they’re just staring at each other, and maybe it should be weird, but it’s not. In fact, it’s kind of nice, familiar almost.

“Der, they didn’t have any Almond Joys so I got you—” Laura stops mid sentence as she looks up from the grocery bag she was digging around in when she entered. “Hi.”

Stiles isn’t totally convinced she doesn’t want to toss him out the window but returns the sentiment anyway. “Hi, I’m, uh, Stiles.”

“I guess I should thank you, Stiles,” she says, holding out her hand. They shake as she continues, “I never thought getting hit by a bus could save someone’s life, but I’m grateful.”

“I really didn’t do anything,” he says with a tight smile, “but I’m happy everything worked out.” Awkward silence descends around them as both Hale’s study him. Laura has a puzzled look on her face and Derek won’t quite meet his eyes. He takes the opportunity to remind himself why he came. “Oh, I think I found your cat.”

“S’mores?” Derek asks, his bushy brows rising at the news.

“Yeah, I found her under a dumpster, and didn’t want anything to happen to her while you were here. So I caught her for you.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s downstairs in my jeep.”

Laura leans over the side of Derek’s bed and kisses him. “I’ll run her home, Der, you need to rest anyway.” She looks between the both of them before her eyes settle on Stiles, eyeing him for a second longer than is comfortable. “Don’t wear out your welcome.”

Stiles doesn’t know if that’s a threat, but he nods before listening to the sound of her heels carry her out the door and down the hallway. 

“Sorry about her. She can be… overprotective,” Derek says.

“I hit you with a bus. I think she has grounds for that.”

Derek smiles again, and he forgets how to breathe. A nurse bearing gifts of ice chips and green jello buys him time to regain his composure. He promises himself he’ll leave after Derek finishes what he can hardly call breakfast, but he can’t be held responsible if those green eyes hold him captive longer than that. He’s never looked directly into them before, which is probably a good thing because he might’ve crashed his bus a lot sooner.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” Stiles starts, hands sneaking out of his pockets despite himself, “but why do you ride the bus? Your family owns half the land in town. I’m sure you could afford a car or a limo or something.” He can’t read the expression on Derek’s face, so he presses on, unable to control his mouth. “Probably like ten. Am I right or is that classist of me? I still live with my dad, ‘cause I’m dirt poor, so maybe I’m just projecting, and I probably shouldn’t be so presumptuous. You have every right to ride the bus. It is _ public _ transportation, after all.”

A low laugh stops him before he has a chance to ramble on and embarrass himself further. 

“I grew up on a wildlife preserve,” Derek says, a hint of amusement evident in the crinkle of his eyes. “Is it that hard to imagine I care about the environment?”

Stiles brain spasms and so do his hands. “No, I mean yeah, that’s, no I get it.” He manages to stuff his hands in his back pockets to contain some of his crazy and bounces on the balls of his feet. Silence settles around them, and Laura’s words about wearing out his welcome have his anxiety on the rise.

“There is another reason,” Derek says, gaze darting around the room as he rubs at the stubble on his chin. “But it’s kind of embarrassing.” He ducks his head as pink creeps up his neck and peeks at Stiles.

Stiles chuckles, because that is adorable. 

Derek’s chest rises with a deep breath before he rushes out a garbled mess of word soup. “The first time was legit, but then I recognized you from your book covers since I’ve read all your books, and the second time I intended to ask for you autograph, but that felt kind of lame, so I chickened out but kept riding because I maybe might’ve thoughtyouwerecute.” 

“I’m sorry, what now? You’ve read my books?” It takes a minute for Stiles’s brain to unpack everything else, but he can’t stop grinning like a fool when he stumbles over the word cute. He takes that as his cue to blush, a feverish rush of heat spiraling out from his cheeks. 

Speaking of cute, Derek’s brows do a charming little dance of relief and surprise. “Well, yeah. I like to support local artists.”

“You’re Alpha One,” Stiles spits out, his mouth begging to run amok and confess all his dirty little Derek-centric secrets. The only thing that stops him is Derek’s fist on the collar of his shirt as he pulls him down into a sloppy kiss that morphs from tentative and unfamiliar to all encompassing want in a fraction of a second. And when had he gotten close enough for Derek to grab him?

Derek tenses and pulls back as he attempts to mumble an apology, but Stiles is not having it. He waited six months to hit on Derek, and he is determined to make it count.

“Oh no, no, no, you don’t get to take it back,” Stiles says, lunging forward to kiss him again, mindful not to jostle him too much. Derek smiles against his lips, and Stiles huffs out a laugh in victory.

“Okay, Stiles, but next time you hit on me, make sure it’s not with a bus.”

“Roger that, Alpha One,” Stiles replies with a cheeky grin.

Yep, all of this is absolutely going in his next book.


End file.
